What the Wind Swallowed
by Pheonie
Summary: Lord Littlefinger reflects upon the Red Wedding.


Hello all! I always did wonder how LF would have responded to Cat's death, and so this is it. I enjoy LF very much as a character, and I refuse to write him off as either a pedophile or a scumbag. He's a social climber, for sure, but damn, so charming and successful of one that he falls under my underdog love. I hope GRRM gives him a great death at least, and it is my private hope that we get a redemption moment out of him. xD Enjoy!

This account is super old, so just yeah.

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Littlefinger considers himself to be a remarkable man. He wasn't born remarkable though. Oh no. He was born into a world overrun with wolves and lions and _dragons._ Where men and women claim with their loud little voices that _they _were the _blood of the dragon_, or _wolf-blooded_, or whatever such nonsense that made Littlefinger unable to decide between laughing uproariously at their delusion or clench his teeth with jealousy.

They considered themselves _special, _but Littlefinger quickly learned they were not. Wolves and lions bled the same. They carry the same arrogance, they have the same entitled thoughts, and they all play the game of thrones. _Special _blood or birth didn't make one good at the game of thrones, he had found, for they were all the same sort of stupid as well. He found that out only later though.

In this world so intent on empty titles and predetermined status and _posturing_, he was born bereft. House Baelish had only the Fingers to call home, and still, only the smallest of them- A few rocky acres of land. He himself was born a Titan's head- a decapitated thing. And a decapitated thing he felt like for the first few years of his life. Crippled by his family name when he tried to rise with nothing but his wit and intellect. How infuriating it was when someone got something that he himself wanted just because they were _born_ with a fancy sigil to call their own.

The only thing he wanted in the entire world wasn't a thing. It was a person. Catelyn Tully. A girl he had grown up with, danced with, _kissed with_, and had been the best of friends with. But she was to be married to someone else. A wolf. He had wanted her so badly, loved her so fervently, but that didn't mean anything to her or more importantly her father. Her betrothed was a fancy wolf, and what was he? Oh, just a decapitated head. He couldn't even console himself by telling himself that _she_ loved _him, the wolf. _They had never met.

From then, he tapped into his previously unknown source of genius. He climbed the ranks with nothing but sheer intelligence. To prove a point: a point that no matter how much royalty tried to make the rest of the world believe they were animal-blooded, they would always have to bow to the even greater beast. A human mind. HIS mind. He ruled them in his own way. They came to him to solve their petty little problems and walked away thinking that _he_ had served _them_, when in reality, they were only proving to him again and again how incompetent they were. It opened his eyes to what _he_ could accomplish while the rest of the world learned nothing but how to bark orders. They had no true skills, just the _name_ to make others obey, and the money to back it up. He became an animal too, to flit among the other beasts. A mockingbird, singing songs that sounded so sweet.

But now, Catelyn was dead. And he did not feel remarkable. He sat in front of his brazier, staring deep into the flames. Sitting still as a statue, he looked almost normal. One would never guess he nursed an emotion that he turned over and over in his heart. His fingers clenched against the stem of a crystal goblet until they turned white. It wasn't supposed to have gone this way. Littlefinger was a planner, a meticulous and conniving evil planner if his enemies and even friends had their say. His plans always fell through the way he wanted them too. His schemes had his puppets dancing to the tune he had planted in their heads. His plots always slowly working towards his ultimate goal: Power. But Catelyn was gone. She was gone when she _shouldn't_ be! He took another sip of his red wine calmly before in a fit of madness dashed it violently against the wall. The resounding crash and fall of crystal soothed him.

_It's nothing more than you deserve. _He thought grimly. _Cat, you were always terrible at the game when it counted the most. _

Catelyn hadn't died in any of the countless outcomes that went through his mind. He thought he had accounted for all the possibilities. The Red Wedding was something he found out about a few weeks in advance. He thought he had made it clear in his subsequent dealings. Catelyn was to survive. She had to see. She had to see HIM. See what he had become, what he had been all along. She couldn't die without seeing HIM, for one last time.

Littlefinger remembered the day he fought for her heart against Brandon Stark. He had been such a little idiot back then. To fight a grown man like Brandon when he was but a fledgling was suicide, not to mention humiliating. No one liked a suitor that was poor AND weak. And Brandon Stark was neither. And he was both. It was a small wonder Catelyn would never consider him anything more than a friend.

His life revolved around that though. He never forgot. The stinging humiliation at the realization that he was born not-good-enough. His sigil was not a mighty beast. His love had soured then. Love was not love if she didn't love him back. Love didn't smite down foes. Love didn't make others respect you. Love made you do the _stupidest_ things.

And that was unacceptable. He wasn't sure when he decided that power was the most attractive thing in the world. More so than Catelyn. The only thing he knew was that the feeling of power was delicious and freeing. With it, he would no longer feel crippled by status, stared at with disdain, or laughed at behind his back.

One day he wanted to stand on equal ground with the beautiful Catelyn Tully. To stand before her as a lord of a high seat. To smile graciously, to make her feel some sort of _loss_ as he told her that he no longer cared about her, no longer loved her. Wanted to see in her eyes recognition that he was always _worthy, _had always been worthy. That she was wrong to see nothing but sigil and muscle and thricedamned duty. That she should have seen his heart and his brain and the power that he _could be_. And then he would continue to rise. Rise until HE was King of them all.

But she was gone, and Littlefinger would never be able to show her. He fingered another goblet before filling it again with wine. His hands were not shaking, but Littlefinger wondered for how long.


End file.
